I’m fucking James Bond —
the Roger Moore James, not the Sean Connery —
the straightedge James, not the curved —
and it’s nice to be fucking James
for once
But there’s not just me
in my dream: there’s another me,
ten years younger,
five inches shorter,
six semitones higher,
with flick-shoulder curl-tipped platinum hair
and narrow
little lips
She’s as pretty as death, but she doesn’t
want to play; she comes at me
with a knife. We fight. James stares
at the ceiling. He doesn’t care
who fucks him, two women, one,
me, her. I’d be happy to enjoy him
together, but she
wants to own the unownable —
so she slashes and spoils
our dream